


I'll hold your weary hands (and sit with you through the storm)

by winterfool



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But it's there, F/M, it's more about mutually working through trauma, not super shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 16:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13345491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfool/pseuds/winterfool
Summary: When Vox Machina bring the grim news of Delilah Briarwood's return, Kynan offers what comfort he can to a shaken Cassandra. (Set during episode 101).





	I'll hold your weary hands (and sit with you through the storm)

Kynan ran his fingers lightly over the blade of his new dagger. It was beautifully forged, the seams where the metal had been folded in on itself invisible, with a faint blue tinge to the dark grey steel. The edge was honed to wicked sharpness and gleamed where it caught the early morning sunlight.

Experimentally he threw it across the yard towards the training dummies. It was well balanced as well as beautiful, and spun, flashing, through the air to thud into the wooden head of one dummy with a solid, echoing  _thunk_.

As he walked over to retrieve it, Kynan considered the damage he would be able to do with it in a battle. He hadn’t been in a real fight for more than a year – nothing beyond training bouts and dealing with the occasional troublemaker since Glintshore – but from the way people were speaking, it was possible one might soon come to Whitestone. If he was honest, Kynan didn’t know how emotionally prepared he would be for it. But at least he would be well-armed.

One more thing to thank Vax’ildan for. One more thing Kynan would never be able to truly repay him for, although he did his best every day to live up to the trust placed in him.

When he was being kind to himself he thought that, perhaps, he had proved himself at least somewhat worthy of the second chance he had been given. He had spent the year building up and training the Whitestone rifle corps, under Percival’s supervision, and lent a hand around the city wherever one was needed to help Whitestone begin to grow and thrive again. He had worked diligently at his own training with Jarrett, so that should he be needed to defend the city he could, and it showed in the muscle he had put on, the hardened lines of his body.

The blood on his hands might not ever completely wash away, but he could, he hoped, do enough good to balance it somewhat.

The sound of voices and footsteps broke into his thoughts, and he turned to see a few of the castle guards come around the corner. One caught sight of him and called out,

“Morning, Leore! Lady Cassandra not with you today?”

“No, not today,” Kynan replied, slipping the dagger back into his belt, but as the guards turned away he frowned and glanced up at the sky. He hadn’t realised it was so late. Cassandra normally joined him well before this.

Of course, there were days when she couldn’t come, having to attend to urgent duties, but usually she let him know.

He hesitated only a moment before starting for the castle.

There were a few people he had gotten to know in Whitestone that he would call friends, but the closest, the only one who knew the entirety of his past, was – a little oddly, perhaps – Cassandra. It had begun when she had approached him, intrigued by the fact that her brother had put him in charge of training people to use his guns, and developed when, on realising they both fought with daggers, they began sparring together.

From the start she had been easy to talk to. Perhaps it was because of the informality of their training sessions that allowed things other circumstances wouldn’t; Cassandra had once told him that she looked forward to their mornings together, a few hours where she could put aside her worries and responsibilities, not be the Lady of the Whitestone, but just herself.

More likely it was just her. Kynan had made sure she knew exactly who he was and how he had ended up here, what he had a been a part of, but she had not judged or blamed him as he expected. As he deserved. She had  _understood_. She had looked him straight in the eye and told him it wasn’t too late to make amends. And then she told him of her own past, her entanglement with the Briarwoods and the years trapped by them that had carved her out and twisted her thoughts, and that was when Kynan began to understand her.

That understanding bonded them, in a way he couldn’t describe to someone who hadn’t lived through such a thing. Who hadn’t been turned inside out and unmade, woken from a nightmare where they were the monster. Who hadn’t had to put the broken pieces of themselves back together and hope there were enough left to make a whole.

It hadn’t been friendship, though. Not exactly. That came later, as they got to know each other over the weeks and then months. When Kynan discovered that Cassandra liked orchid tea (occasionally with a splash of rum), and that she used to use the servants’ passages in the castle to play tricks on her brothers. When he told her about his childhood in Emon and he had almost lost a toe to a very angry tom cat when he was nine.

The more he learned about her, the more layers were pulled back, the more he admired her. Her strength and resilience, for what she had endured and the burdens she now bore for Whitestone, her determination not to fail in her duties. The gentleness that managed to survive her experiences, the kindness she showed to people like him, the mischievous sense of humour that she tried to keep under tight control for appearances’ sake but that still shone through every now and then.

He admired her more than was probably appropriate given their stations, but he couldn’t feel sorry about it. It wasn’t just his promise to Vax that drove him to keep an eye on her now, it was how much she had come to mean to him. He wanted nothing more than to be a help and support to her.

And it was personal concern that now drove him up the stairs towards her study.

Normally, he wouldn’t be so worried that she hadn’t come this morning – but the lack of note, and the anxious demeanour Vox Machina had worn before they left yesterday …

… he didn’t know what was wrong, but he had an uneasy feeling and he needed to see that Cassandra was alright.

He knocked gently on her door. There was a pause and then her voice called out, slightly muffled, “Yes? I – I’m a little busy just now. Is it important?”

“It’s me. Ah, Kynan, I mean.”

Silence.

“Cassandra?”

“Come in.”

When he opened the door, he was struck first by the overwhelming scent of freshly-cut flowers that were dotted around the room and then, underneath, the faint, lingering smell of sick.

Cassandra was at her desk, head in her hands, but stood as he came in. She looked like she had dressed hurriedly, without much thought. Strands of hair were coming loose, and a couple of buttons were in the wrong holes. It was her face that Kynan fixed on though: she was even paler than usual, a faint grey tinge to her skin. Dark shadows cut below her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, and there was an unnatural tightness in the set of her jaw.

Kynan shut the door and crossed anxiously over to her.

“I’m sorry I missed our sparring session,” she started, but he cut her off.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill?”  

She shook her head, eyes slowly rising to meet his. She looked  _haunted_. Sharp anger and worry rose in him, and questions fought to be asked. What had happened, who had done this, what did he have to do to take that look away from her right this instant?

“Not exactly. I …” A small crease appeared in her forehead. “I don’t quite know how to say this.”

Kynan lifted his hand as though he might take hers, but after a moment let it drop back to his side. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Slowly, as if only half aware of what she was doing, she nodded. “I think you might be the only person I can tell. You … you know my brother and his friends were away for a couple of days?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“They were investigating another ziggurat, like the one below the castle.”

He hadn’t seen it, but she had told him about it. The pyramid, and the orb that nullified any nearby magic. That was tied to something dark, and which many important and powerful people had been investigating for a long time but still didn’t entirely understand.

Cassandra swallowed nervously, and turned to look out the window as she continued. “It was in Marquet. When they found it they fought a group of cultists that were using it for something. They killed some, but others got away, including their leader.”

Something about the way she said ‘leader’ told Kynan this was what was troubling her. He tilted his head slightly, waiting.

“Their leader …” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Their leader is Delilah Briarwood.”

Cold horror swept over Kynan, and he heard his breath escape in a low hiss. He had never met the Briarwoods, but he had heard enough to know what kind of monsters they were. What they had done to Cassandra. How hard she had fought to claw her way back from where they had taken her, to put their lingering memory behind her.

Delilah’s reappearance was her worst nightmare come true.

Her blue eyes met his, and he could see how much she was struggling to hold herself together and not let all those broken pieces she had glued back together come apart again.

He thought about how easy he would find it to crumble if Ripley suddenly reappeared.

“How is that possible?” he asked, wishing he could do something – strike Delilah down, or just take away the fear and pain she had left behind.

Cassandra gave a broken, bitter laugh. “She’s a necromancer. Once I thought about it,  I was more surprised that I  _was_  surprised.”

“Do you think she’ll come here?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked so small, and unsure, and Kynan was filled with a violent hatred for the people that had hurt her. That made her doubt herself, when she was so  _good_  and so brilliant, and everything he would like to be himself.

Reaching out, he placed a hand on her shoulder and she blinked up at him. Other than their sparring, they didn’t really touch. Close as they were, they were both aware of their positions. And he was too aware of his own feelings not to keep a careful distance between them.

“If she does, she is not going to take you again. You’re stronger than that.”

“Am I?”

“ _Yes_. You know what she did, what she is now. You found your way back from what she tried to turn you into, and I know you won’t let yourself be pulled back there,” he said fervently, needing her to see just how much he believed it. “And you’re not alone any more. You have your brother, and Vox Machina. You have all of Whitestone. And … and you have me.”

Her hands were trembling, he noticed.

“It’s okay to be scared. She put you through hell. But you’re better than she is, in every way. You’ll get through this too.”

A tiny, almost hysterical smile pulled at her mouth. “When Percival told me she was back, I … I threw up.”

He moved without really thinking, only aware that she needed comforting and he needed to comfort her. She gave a little squeak of surprise as he pulled her into his arms, and at first went stiff and still. Slowly, she relaxed into the embrace. Her hands moved around to rest on his back, and she rested her head against his chest. Her could feel her heart thudding through her ribs, and smell the flowery fragrance she wore.

He wondered when was the last time she had been hugged. She was a formal person, and from what he had observed she and her brother weren’t given to overt physical displays of affection. He squeezed her gently, bending down to set his chin on top of her head, wishing that just by enfolding her in his arms he could protect her from the world.

And then, all of a sudden, it was like a dam broke. Her weight slumped heavily against him and her arms abruptly tightened, her fingers tangling in the back of his shirt and her face burying into his chest. Her shoulders heaved as quiet sobs tore from her throat, and her could feel her shaking. His heart constricted painfully in his chest.

“I-I’m sorry,” she gasped out, “I just need a moment.”

“It’s okay. I’m right here.”

When the sobs subsided though, she didn’t make any move to pull away from him and he made no move to let her go.

“Kynan?” Her voice vibrated through him as she spoke. “If she does come here, you’ll fight with me?”

“I won’t leave your side,” he promised.

There was a pause, and then she asked, “Do you have things to be getting back to?”

“Nothing as important as this.”

“Good. Can we stay like this for a while? This is nice.”

“As long as you want.”

Perhaps he couldn’t kill Delilah Briarwood for her. But he could hold her, and be there to help fight her other demons, and perhaps that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I posted this on [tumblr](http://lavellenchanted.tumblr.com/post/162139115572/ill-hold-your-weary-hands-and-sit-with-you) ages ago but forgot to cross-post it here  
> 2\. Kind of follows on from [Second Chances](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8730118)  
> 3\. I remembered it today and figured I might as well post it up before the new campaign starts (I am EXCITED)  
> 4\. Matt agreed there was potential for Kyssandra on Twitter and I feel VALIDATED, I love my poor broken children


End file.
